


lifting off deeper blues

by OkayAristotle



Series: we've got the heart [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 09:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15660537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle
Summary: Rationally, he knows ghosts don’t exist.He tells himself so, repeatedly, in the cracked bathroom mirror each morning, but that doesn’t stop the Goddamned ghost from appearing in his reflection, brushing his teeth hurriedly or shaving tiredly every morning at 6:30 A.M.





	lifting off deeper blues

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts since March 2017. Just had to finally post it, without bothering to edit. Will finish the second part soon.

Living in a shithole wasn’t Bruce’s idea of a fun time, but it beats out living in the creaking halls of Wayne Manor any day.

He’s got a summer to figure out which college to attend, and that’s more than long enough when he already knows. Harvard will be good, and Alfred will be proud of him, and until then he’ll stay in Metropolis.

Bruce takes the first apartment on offer, a one-bedroom thing on the fourth floor that the landlady tells him is semi-furnished. Technically, it is. The amount of dust in the place is probably breaking a few laws, and half of the furniture is clearly the belongings of old tenants, left behind for the next poor soul to move in.

Bruce doesn’t care. The toxic hazard that is apartment 4B is _his_ , no Wayne history attached, and it’s miles away from where anyone will recognize him. That’s as good as gold to him, and the place is dirt cheap — barely making a dent in his funds.

The bathroom cabinet holds every imaginable kind of cleaning supply, obviously never touched. Most likely a subtle hint from the universe that Bruce’s apartment is a nightmare. Seven in the morning is a little too early to be smiling, though the sight of his own hands wiggling in pink rubber gloves brings a slight tip to his mouth anyway.

Alfred would be proud.

Early morning light spills in through the bedroom window, forcing it’s way through the thick film of dust and grime. It’s heavier here in Metropolis - the light, that is, not the dirt - than it is in Gotham, blanketing everything thickly where it filters onto everything in the room, highlighting every dark crevice.

There’s not much to be done for the bed. Still, he props the mattress against the wall opposite the window, beats it with his hand, six months of dust vibrating off the surface. The other decade of sweaty bodies and spills won’t be coming out anytime soon, but he supposed it’ll do.

After that, it’s sweeping the floorboards with a brush he’d found buried in the bathroom cabinet, shirt pressed to his face as he coughs deep, wet coughs. It doesn’t sound right, unhealthy, his chest rattling a little too much and Bruce makes a mental note to stock up on cough medicine.

With that in mind, he abandons bottles of bleach and Windex in favour of trudging his way to the kitchen. It’s a small thing, run down, the fridge large enough for a whole family but wheezing, and when he turns the tap to rinse and fill a glass, he finds it to be icy.

He thinks of calling Alfred. There’s a landline just by the kitchen door, leading off to the living room. It would be easy cross the distance, call one of the few numbers he has memorized, just hear his voice—

Bruce swallows thickly, and averts his gaze.

He flicks on the lights instead, downing his glass as he does so, the water chilling him from inside out. It’s a surprise that they don’t blow immediately, Bruce’s eyebrows raising as he turns his head up to look, and then back down again to survey the damage done to the kitchen by time.

Oddly enough, it looks _good._ The fridge, the first thing he notices, is still large, thrumming rather than wheezing as it had been a moment ago, spotless except for a stray dent on the handle, and the sink is free of grime. The tiling on the walls is clean, too, dishes piled on the rack and he _swears_ they weren’t there before. He doesn’t _have_ any dishes. And then--

And then there’s a man.

Sitting at his kitchen table.

Except it’s _not._ Not his, not the rickety thing he’d been sure would topple the moment he set a mug on it, not the same chair either, wobbly with a crack running up the right leg. It’s not _right._  

Bruce squeaks.

The man at his kitchen table - _not his kitchen table, not his kitchen table, not his fucking kitchen table -_ doesn’t even look up until Bruce’s glass slips from his hand, smashing against the perfectly clean lino. Last he remembered, there was no lino.

The man, despite being a stranger in Bruce’s new home, doesn’t even look at him. Instead, he turns his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at the window above the sink, not a foot from where Bruce stands now, and then at the doorway opposite it, turning to look behind himself where the fridge stands before he shakes his head and goes back to reading the morning newspaper.

If he weren’t being an absolute _weirdo_ Bruce might consider him handsome. In a mid-forties, greying slightly, hasn’t-slept-much-recently kind of way. Just Bruce’s type, apparently, if the heat rising to his cheeks is any indication.

The man’s broad in the shoulders, hidden mostly by a plain white shirt and wide tie, with glasses that bring out his cheekbones and _God,_ the biggest set of hands Bruce has ever seen holding the newspaper delicately.

Bruce _might_ find him attractive if he wasn’t enough of an asshole to ignore him when he clears his throat and offers a light, “Didn’t see you there.”

The man continues to regard his newspaper tiredly. _Maybe he’s deaf_ , some part of his brain supplies. _Maybe he’s blind too,_ another part adds as an afterthought, and Bruce almost hits himself because the man is _reading._

He’s not deaf or blind, just an ass.

“I was talking to you.” He adds, firmer, louder, but the man simply sips his coffee. Bruce’s heart begins to beat uncomfortably in his chest. “Hey, _I am right here—!”_

The light bulb bursts, showering Bruce in shards of glass.

The man isn’t there anymore.

* * *

 Bruce goes to bed early.

The bathroom is scrubbed within an inch of its life, the kitchen is swept, the fridge is still empty but it’s gone back to wheezing rather than thrumming and it’s the most comforting, annoying sound he’s ever heard.

He learns quickly that the heaters break down a lot.

* * *

 Rationally, he knows ghosts don’t exist.

He tells himself so, repeatedly, in the cracked bathroom mirror each morning but that doesn’t stop the _Goddamned ghost_ from appearing in his reflection, brushing his teeth hurriedly or shaving tiredly every morning at 6:30 A.M.

Bruce tries everything to avoid the ghost.

He sleeps in late, when he can, as if he might somehow miss the ghost during his - _its_ \- morning routine. Despite trying his hardest, most mornings he can’t hold onto unconsciousness past sunrise. He wakes, cold down to his bones, the heaters broken _again_. Bruce lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes fixed on where the lightbulb has been replaced and he doesn’t remember when he bought a new one.

He doesn’t remember buying much of anything. Not the lightbulbs, not the new glass to replace the broken one, not the pack of smokes hidden in the bookcase. He doesn’t remember buying a bookcase, or the books within it, and Bruce has never considered smoking; Alfred would have killed him for it long before the cigarettes had their chance.

At least he’s a considerate ghost; replaces the lightbulbs, fills the fridge, never tracks mud through the place. Though, when he showers, he does use all the hot water. Bruce swears he hasn’t had a hot shower since he moved in, and _that_ feels like forever, a lifetime ago.

Living with a ghost is messing with his head, he realizes.

* * *

 Bruce is scared of the kitchen. The lightbulb is replaced there too, and the fridge can’t decide what noises it wants to make, the taps are still ice cold.

Bruce is scared of the hallway.

He’s _always_ there. The ghost straightening his tie in the morning, the ghost kicking his shoes off in the evening, the ghost who looks right through him, eyes narrowed, when they stand at opposite ends of the hall, like he’s almost there but not quite.

It’s unsettling, like he doesn’t even exist, and Bruce is afraid to look at his own hands just in case he sees right through to the floor. The man looks at him, looks _through_ him, and Bruce runs, tripping over his own feet in his haste to slam his bedroom door closed and dive under the thin comforter.

Bruce wakes up most nights coughing. Fingers numb, arms tingling as though he’s fallen asleep in the wrong position, chest _aching_. Every night, like clockwork, Bruce coughs until his throat burns.

The sharp tang of blood in his mouth sticks around longer than it should, especially when Bruce spits into the sink and finds nothing.

* * *

  _Fucking ghosts._

Fucking ghosts who call their mothers at all hours of the day. Bruce is trying to sleep. Bruce is trying to sleep because it feels like it is the middle of the night and the radiator is broken again and Bruce is _cold, he is so cold_ and one of these days he’s sure he’ll freeze to death in his bed. His fingers are numb again.

He’s got a nice voice, at least, just the slightest hint of Midwest but it’s mostly washed away by Metropolis now, a more generalized American accent. His voice would almost be soothing, deep and smooth and so warm when he talks to his _Ma_ that Bruce almost wants to hear more of it.

Or, at least, he would if it wasn’t _the middle of the night_ and it didn’t feel like the ghost was talking right into his ear, mouth pressed to Bruce’s cold skin.

He shoves a pillow over his head and hopes he suffocates.

* * *

 There’s a stack of papers left on the armchair. Bruce ignores the fact that he doesn’t _own_ an armchair. Beside the armchair that doesn’t exist are a pair of red rubber boots, tall things with chevrons cut into the rim without a hint of scuffing and Bruce wonders if they’ve ever been walked in, a little bigger than Bruce’s own worn-out shoes.

It’s the papers that have his attention, though, not the boots or anything else in the room that shouldn’t be there, drawn to them like they’re calling his name and when he leans over to look he finds—

Articles.

His ghost is a writer. When he began thinking of the ghost as _his_ he doesn’t know, and doesn’t particularly care to think long enough about it to figure it out. The article is a long piece on _living conditions_ and Bruce almost laughs, quietly, flicking a look around the room.

The dark, greying parts of the room, are still _terrible._ Dusty and old and there are more questionable stains than he cares to count. The parts that are not his though, they’re nice. 

Unsettling in that they shouldn’t exist, but still _nice_. Bright cream colours and refined furniture fill the room, along with all the clutter that appeared overnight. The ghost has a lot of belongings.

Bruce reads the first page, mouth tasting of blood, fingers skirting over the words as he does. For a moment, he thinks of picking the whole stack up but the sudden image of his hand drifting right through sends ice down his spine. He doesn’t ever want to find out what it feels like to pass his fingers through _anything_ a ghost has.

It’s an article about living conditions in Metropolis, specifically about the _rise_ of quality in some neighbourhoods, the rest left in a decline of sub-par homes, left unattended by landlords and committees. Real estate isn’t Bruce’s forte but the ghost seems to know his stuff.

Bruce lifts his head to see the room and wonders which is the _real_ apartment. The thought of the ghost dragging everything down is an annoying one, turning the water cold and greying the paints.

He doesn’t remember why he ever picked this apartment, just that he had. Looking around, he wishes he never had.

* * *

 “—telling you this place is _bad—_ ” Bruce insists, hands flapping for a moment and he almost curses when his landlady just nods.

She looks a little different. Not that Bruce remembers much these days. Living with a ghost is _messing him up_ and he wants out. A month's notice. That’s all he needs to give. A month and then he can forget about _journalist ghosts_.

“Weren’t you taller, Clark?” She asks, tilting her head to the side like it’ll change what she sees.

_Clark._

Bruce almost heaves. His chest aches painfully and this is wrong, this is _so_ wrong and his landlady _knows the ghost_. One month. He just needs one month. He can survive one month with a ghost and a landlady who only nods when he talks.

“No, I’m not. I’ve always been this tall. Mrs. Sm—”

“A little skinnier, too, dear.” She interrupts and Bruce— Bruce is going to scream. “I’ll bring you some food round next time, put some meat back on your bones.”

Bruce grits his teeth. His landlady readjusts her glasses. “The radiators don’t work, the floorboards keep breaking, the electricals are shi--”

“Watch your language, young man.”

“You’re not _listening_ to me—” He cuts himself off this time, sighing deeply. She knows the ghost. She’s also lost her mind, apparently. He wonders, hysterically, if the same will happen to him if he stays here long enough.

* * *

 Bruce dreams of the man in his kitchen and wakes up heaving into his pillows, unable to breathe.

* * *

 He wakes in a cold sweat and that’s nothing new. He’s always cold these days. The radiators are broken and he swears to himself, struggling to gulp down lungfuls of air, he will never be there to see them fixed.

Under the comforter, it’s not so bad, relatively. His feet feel like blocks of ice, but the longer he lays under the comforter the quicker they thaw. Bruce curls up tighter, eyes clenched shut until pastel blue and red burst behind his lids, fingers tugging on the comforter to wrap it tighter around himself and really, truly become a six year old hiding from a thunderstorm.

He can’t. The comforter stays firmly in place.

His eyes snap open. He tugs again, and maybe it’s because he’s so cold, losing feeling in his fingers, but the comforter doesn’t move. He breathes, shallow and shaky, waiting. In the morning, he’ll laugh at himself, laugh about how his heart pounds in his chest and he is _so cold--_

The comforter shifts.

Bruce doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe, he just _moves._ Scrambling out of the comforter and off the bed is easy in theory, but a little more difficult in reality when his brain is frozen, stuck on a loop of _it moved, it moved, it moved._

He lands on his hip and ignores the pain - and the dust that billows up - in favour of slamming back on his hands, chest heaving as he stares up at the ghost. The ghost propped up in bed, propped up against a headboard that _shouldn’t_ be there, the ghost reading before he settles down to sleep with a bedside lamp on and _it shouldn’t be there._ The ghost which is frozen staring at where Bruce had previously been curled up, evidently _right beside him_ , the comforter a rucked up mess now that he’s made his escape.

It’s not his comforter either. Big and warm-looking and Bruce wants it, if only to hide under. His feet are freezing.

Laughter bubbles out of him at the absurdity of the whole situation, throat raw, and the ghosts head snaps around, eyes glowing when he sets them on Bruce’s form and that—

Of course his eyes _glow_ . Why not? As if the whole _ghost_ thing couldn’t become any stranger. He knows a ghost with glowing eyes.

Bruce laughs again, and feels blood drip down his chin.

He wants Alfred, he wants the Manor with it’s warm fires and even if it didn’t feel like home when he left it he’d take it over this, all of this. He’d take it over handsome ghosts any day, especially when said handsome ghost’s eyes slide over Bruce, not _seeing_ him but he knows he’s there, Bruce is sure of it, a nervous cough passing through his mouth.

The ghost’s— _Clark’s —_ mouth tips up at the corner, his eyes wide in wonder and he sounds slightly in awe when he murmurs, “Huh. 

The lightbulb in the lamp gives out with a soft _pop_ and Bruce scrambles out of the room, not bothering to check if the man is still there.

* * *

 In the kitchen is the leftovers of a casserole, mostly eaten with a note stuck to the side of the dish from his landlady. 

Bruce stops eating altogether.

* * *

  “--like the casserole, dear?” His landlady asks. 

Bruce freezes in the hallway. It looks a mile long from where he is, but he’s determined to _leave._ Go anywhere, as far away as possible from Metropolis, anything so long as it doesn’t involve a ghost named Clark. Clark who his landlady is _talking to._

“I did,” He admits, slight smile on his face, “But I didn’t _ask_ for any—”

“Nonsense, there’s no need to ask.” She replies, waving with her hand. “You’re looking much better since I saw you last, Clark.”

The ghost gives a shrug, murmuring a _thank you_ that Bruce strains to hear. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something else, Mrs. Sm—"

“That was my sister, God rest her soul. First names will do just fine, Clark.” She cuts in warmly, hands clasped in front of her.

“My condolences,” Clark offers and Bruce sets his bags down gently, peering around the corner further to see better.

“Oh, it’s fine, dear. She passed years ago as it is, I don’t think she ever quite recovered from what happened to her last tenant. Never really forgave herself.” She explains, head tipped back far enough that it looks painful to see Clark.

“Well, that’s actually what I wanted to know.” Clark says, voice quieter this time. “What _did_ happen to him? I’ve heard some things.”

Bruce swallows a mouthful of blood.

“Oh. This place used to be a real sight, dear, but everything was back then. Nobody had the money to fix things, you see. He rented the back room over a _terrible_ winter, the locks on the building weren’t all that good.” She sighs, pausing for a long moment. “Poor boy was mugged in the night for his things, my sister found him in the morning with a punctured lung. Such a shame, really, he seemed like such a bright boy. Told my sister he was going to Harvard.”

Bruce’s mouth slips open, blood pouring out. He doesn’t hear whatever’s said next, whatever makes his landlady’s sister leave. Clark stays where he is, at the other end of the hall, staring at the closed door for a long moment. White noise swallows up every space in the room and Bruce chokes, eyes burning, chest throbbing.

The noise has Clark’s head snapping in his direction to look at him, _really_ look at him. Bruce’s skin crawls under the gaze, stumbling back a step.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, and he _sounds_ it, eyebrows pulled together in sympathy.

Bruce blinks back his tears futilely, barely able to hear him over the drumming in his head, the pounding of his heart, but there’s nothing _there_ , just cold _._ _Punctured lung._ Bruce raises his hand to his mouth, mutely horrified, heaving a sob he shouldn’t be able to make, throat filled with blood.

Eighteen had seemed like such a _big_ age. _He was going to Harvard._

He’s never felt smaller in his life, shaking in his sweater, fingers curled into the sleeves. Clark who’s _alive_ stays glued to the floor, and for that he’s thankful, the thought of being touched sending tears spilling over his eyes.

The only person he wants near is _Alfred_ but to him he’s dead and—Bruce swears quietly into his palm. His head hurts. His head hurts _so much_ and it feels like he’s got brain freeze when he tries to order things, when he remembers Alfred packing his bags, when he tries to think of anything but the apartment where he _died._

He supposes he’s got a lot of making up to do to the man he’s been haunting.


End file.
